


The Thousand Blades of Conquest

by Prudential



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prudential/pseuds/Prudential
Summary: Set in the canon of 'Game of Thrones', I hope to give a conclusion to the epic tragedy of Westeros. Branching away from the show in late Season 7, I hope to give the story a conclusion better suited to the intricacy of plot, and deep characters it gave us. Beginning after the Sacking of the Goldroad, and prior to the trip beyond the wall. Though it may resemble or follow the path set by the show at times, this will not follow the overall story of Season 8.





	1. Tyrion: A King & a Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this! I hope that I'm able to best represent your favorite characters from Game of Thrones. The one major canonical change to the show I've made is referencing the White Walkers / Army of the Dead as 'the Others'. It's something from the books that I quite liked, and I don't like that they've excluded it in the shows.

Tyrion had known that Westerosi blood would have to be spilled in this war. He had even come to terms with the fact that some of the men dying would undoubtedly be men he had known during his time in Westeros. However, no amount of preparation could prepare him to see men and wagons bearing the lion of House Lannister burning beneath his Queen’s dragon.

Tyrion had been by Daenerys’ side while she delivered her ultimatum to the Lannister and Tarly forces. He had watched with mute horror as she announced her intention to execute Randyll and Dickon Tarly for refusing to bend the knee, and his horror had only grown when she carried that sentence out. What was it that Northerners liked to say? _He who passes the sentence should swing the sword?_ At least she had that, perhaps the Northmen would respect her for it when this was all over. 

The enemy soldiers looked at him as a traitor, and Lord Tarly had minced no words about Tyrion’s own loyalties. To them, he was a traitor, the man responsible for bringing the Dragon Queen and her _savages_ to their shores. To be fair, that honor belonged to Yara and Theon Greyjoy—Tyrion had just advised her every move since. 

The Tarly’s executions, and the ambush of the Goldroad, both were hours ago now. Tyrion was no longer standing in grass that came up to his shins, enduring the miserable stench of sweat and burned human flesh. He was back at Dragonstone now, the ancestral castle Daenerys presently made her headquarters. He could feel the chill seeping through his breaches from the smooth stone steps he sat upon. Varys was sitting next to him, dressed equally as nobly as Tyrion but giving no indication that he was uncomfortable with the cold stone they sat on. 

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap_ came the striking of the scroll in Varys’ hand against the black stone steps beneath them. His friend had been idly tapping the paper whenever a lull crept over their conversation, as it seemed had just occurred. The rhythmless noise stirred Tyrion from his recollection of the battle, and his face creased with a dark frown. “All rulers demand that people bend the knee.”

The silence was broken, and Varys turned to face him. The tapping was gone now, and he was waiting to hear what else Tyrion would say. “It’s how they’re _rulers,”_ as he spoke Tyrion gave a flourish of his hand to imply such a connection should have been obvious. He took a long sip from the polished wineglass in his hand, savoring the brief respite the sweet sticky wine offered him. “She gave Lord Tarly a choice, after all they raised arms against her. What other choice did she have?” Mentally Tyrion recoiled at the words coming out of his mouth. The argument he made was weak, not the typical rhetoric he was known for. Was he suspending his better judgement for Daenerys, or was he losing his touch?

“Ignore their objections and send them to the Wall? Imprison them? _Not_ burn him alive, beside his son?” Varys voice was dripping with annoyance, a hair away from ire.

“I am the Queen’s hand, not her head. I can only advise her on what I feel is wise, I can’t make her decisions for her.” Despite his internal misgivings, Tyrion’s face pinched up in indignation at Varys’ prodding. Of all the injustices in Westeros, or even all Daenerys’ unwise decisions, this was hardly the worst. The Tarlys _had_ been enemy combatants, and had refused to lay down their allegiances.

“That’s what I used to tell myself about _her father._ I found the traitors, but I wasn’t the one burning them alive. I was only a purveyor of information.” Varys paused, and reached for his own polished wineglass sitting on the steps behind him. With practiced grace, he poured more of the wine. Though he filled the glass almost to its brim, not a drop spilled over nor splashed out. “It’s what I told myself when I watched them beg for mercy, _I’m not the one doing it._ When the pitch of their screams rose higher, _I’m not the one doing it._ When their hair caught fire, and the smell of burning flesh filled the throne room, _I’m not the one doing it.”_ The subtle bass of Varys voice reverberated softly in Dragonstone’s throne room, alongside the clinking of silver wineglasses against the stone steps. 

Tyrion’s frown grew darker, and he averted his eyes from Varys while draining his wineglass. Finally he looked back, a righteous expression on his face. “She’s not her father.”

“Mmmm,” Varys hummed, the sound so soft it could’ve meant agreement, or simply contemplation. “And she never will be.” The words were spoken hollowly, and with a hint of regret, only for Varys to follow up seconds later. “With the right counsel, I mean.” Tyrion just shot him a dubious look. He didn’t want to commit the energy it would take to decipher what Varys meant, and he was slightly annoyed by the implication that his counsel thus far had been subpar. “You _need_ to find a way to make her listen.”

He considered pressing the point, reminding Varys that he’d known Daenerys, and her brother before her, far longer than Tyrion. Rebuffing the implications that this was _his_ fault, but he didn’t, instead he turned his eyes back to the scroll in Varys’ hand. “Who’s that for?”

Varys snorted an amused, breathy sound. He had clearly caught Tyrion’s not-so-subtle change of subject. He glanced at the seal once more, as if to ‘remind’ himself who it was to. “Jon Snow,” he replied curtly.

“Did you read it?” Tyrion said. He hoped this would lead to something far more interesting than his inability to quell their Queen’s temper. 

Varys recoiled ever so slightly, tilting his head and re-emphasizing his previous statement. “It’s a _sealed_ scroll for the King in the North.” 

Tyrion just took another sip from his wine glass, making no indication that he planned to acknowledge Varys’ lie as anything else. “What’s it say?”

“Nothing good,” Varys answered. He curled his upper lip in momentary frustration, and turned to face out into the throne room as Tyrion had earlier. After a moment of somber silence staring out into the throne room, Varys rocked himself onto his feet. He subtly extended a hand with the palm facing upward towards Tyrion, offering the smaller man help in rising to his feet. “We should be on then.”

Tyrion, never one to turn down help, took Varys’ hand in his own and slowly rose. “On to _where_ exactly?” Tyrion questioned, inquisitively looking up at his friend. “What was inside the scroll?”

Before answering, Varys began navigating his way through the throne room with Tyrion in tow. The Master of Whisperers was wearing a thick robe, so dark that Tyrion couldn’t tell if it was navy or black. It was trimmed with a pale, muted blue strip of fabric, and the whole thing gave Varys his normal air of sophistication. “Jon Snow’s brother and youngest sister have returned to Winterfell. The former claims to have _seen_ the Others marching towards Eastwatch.”

Tyrion blinked a few times, tilting his head in confusion despite being out of Varys’ sight. “Brandon Stark or Rickon Stark? Which brother?” As far as Tyrion had known, all three true-born sons of Ned Stark had been killed, though he’d only seen confirmation that Robb Stark was _truly_ dead. 

“Brandon, though he’s not calling himself that—he’s referred to himself here as the ‘Three Eyed Raven’, and is calling _Sansa_ Lady of Winterfell,” Varys replied.

Tyrion let out a low, sarcastic whistle shaking his head with a slight smile. “I see she was able to become Lady of Winterfell on her own, without my father forcing her into another marriage.”

“You certainly helped her ensure that wouldn’t be the case,” Varys added, his voice dry but lined with self-amusement. 

Tyrion shot him a wounded look, curling his lip in distaste before giving a slight laugh. “This is the same Brandon Stark that’s unable to walk?”

Varys just nodded, not adding anything further to the discussion for now. The pair crossed through a final doorway and were suddenly in the presence of Daenerys, Jon, Ser Jorah Mormont and Ser Davos Seaworth, all seated around the table fashioned to double as a map of Westeros. They were all no doubt discussing how to go about the business of deposing his older sister from the Iron Throne. 

“Your grace,” Varys said to Daenerys with a slight bow. Tyrion echoed the words moments later. Without another word, Varys moved towards Jon with the scroll—seal seemingly unbroken—extended before him. Tyrion, meanwhile, moved to his place at the Queen’s right hand side. Absentmindedly he began straightening his Hand pin. It was a nervous habit he’d had since he served as Joffrey’s interim Hand.

Jon and Varys had exchanged hushed words, but now Jon was staring slack-jawed at the scroll stretched between his hands. Varys wore a practiced expression of surprise as Jon retold the scroll’s contents. The King in the North shook his head in disbelief, his eyes staring past the scroll, unfocused.

“Well, what does it say?” Dany injected, breaking the silence. She was staring at Jon with the same intensity she’d had since his arrival. Until now she hadn’t been forced to interact with many people actually _from_ Westeros. Only now was she beginning to see the ungainly task that ruling Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms would be.

“Bran and Arya have returned to Winterfell…” Jon replied. His voice was distant, and his eyes were still absently staring at the table. “I thought Arya was dead… I thought Bran was dead.”

“I’m happy for you.” There was an attempt at empathy in Dany’s voice, and Tyrion could tell some of the initial ice that had formed between the two was melting. “You don’t look happy…” she added half a minute later, upon seeing the disheartened look on Jon’s face.

“Bran saw the Night King and his army marching towards Eastwatch. If they make it past the wall…” Jon shook his head, “I need to go home.”

“The wall has kept them out for thousands of years, presumably…” Varys interjected. Tyrion still wasn’t certain whether his friend believed in the threat behind the wall. To be fair, Tyrion wasn’t certain how much _he_ believed the threat beyond the wall. Jon’s urgency to access Dragonstone’s dragon glass veins had helped towards convincing him.

“You said you don’t have enough men,” Dany added. She had since caved to Jon snow that she believed in his threat, but it was apparent even now that she considered Cersei a far larger threat.

“We’ll fight with the men we have…. unless you’ll join us?” There was a resignation in Jon’s voice, more of that desperate urgency Tyrion had seen before. This wasn’t the behavior of a man startled by his own shadow. Jon Snow had undoubtedly _seen_ things during his time on the Wall. The only question Tyrion had was the scale of the threat.

“And give the country to Cersei? As soon as I march away, she marches in,” Dany answered with annoyance. She’d given the same reply to Jon each time that her asked for her support prior. Something sparked inside Tyrion though, and he felt words forming in his mind even before Dany was done speaking. 

“Perhaps not,” Tyrion chimed in. The words stopped the others in their place, and brought all eyes—even those of the silent Ser Davos—on him. “Cersei thinks the Others are nothing but a story made up by wet nurses to frighten children. What if we prove her wrong?”

“I don’t think she’ll come see dead at my invitation…” Jon piped in, his voice betraying his confusion. 

“You’re not wrong, but I may know someone who might,” Tyrion’s voice was resigned, despite the hope it offered their situation. 

Dany was looking down on him now, her white-blonde hair falling across one shoulder as she tilted her head in confusion. “And who would that be?”

“My brother Jaime.” Tyrion’s voice was tired, and softer than it had been earlier. He shifted in place. His hands had picked up one of the table pieces that indicated part of their army, and unconsciously began spinning it in one hand. “The only person in all the Seven Kingdoms that Cersei listens to is Jaime, and Jaime _might_ listen to me. He’s done his wrongs,” Tyrion offered, his eyes glancing down so as not to pick up on any sharp looks that might be directed his way, “but he’s an honorable man, and he loves his family. The Army of the Dead _threatens_ that family. If I could arrange a meeting with him, I could possibly convince him to venture beyond the Wall and see for himself that the Others are real.”

“You want me to trust _the Kingslayer?_ And what if he _does_ come, and as soon as one of us turns our back to him, he drives a sword through them—the same way he did my father.” Daenerys’ eyes were hard, but her face wasn’t _angry._ She _wasn’t_ her father, and he could guide her.

“I understand, your grace. But I trust Jaime, whole heartedly. He is our _only_ shot at convincing Cersei that the threat is real.” Tyrion’s voice was calm and conciliatory, pleading with Daenerys to quell her rage for the sake of the realm. 

He could see her green eyes soften, and her face relax from the stony mask it had so suddenly donned. “Fine, and how would you go about _getting_ to King’s Landing?”

For this, Tyrion just turned is head to the side and stared at the quiet Ser Davos. Following his gaze, Jon turned as well—with Daenerys, Varys, and Jorah all following suit. Ser Davos shifted in place, but otherwise gave no signal that he might be uncomfortable with the sudden attention thrown his way.

“I can smuggle you in… but if the Gold Cloaks were to recognize you, I’m warning you I’m not a fighter,” Davos said, knowing exactly what Tyrion was implying.

Dany seemed satisfied by this, but Lord Varys interjected another question. “And how do you expect to show your brother the Army of the Dead, my lord?”

“I’ll take him,” this was the first word from Ser Jorah since Varys and Tyrion had entered the war room. “Khaleesi, you commanded me to find a cure to grey scale so that I could serve you once more. _I did,_ allow me to serve you. I will escort the Kingslayer beyond the wall.”

“ _Ser Jaime,_ ” Tyrion corrected his former traveling companion. “If we’re going to ask him to risk his life to convince Cersei to help us, you may as well not _insult_ him while he’s doing it.” Jorah said nothing.

Daenerys looked torn at the idea, but Jon rejoined the conversation before she had to voice her concerns. “The freefolk’ll help us.”

“They won’t follow Ser Jorah…” Davos interjected, reminding Jon who Ser Jorah’s father had been.

“They won’t have to,” Jon replied. His posture was firm and confident, and though his face had the same long and forlorn expression that Tyrion had seen on countless Starks, he wasn’t at all unsure about his idea.

“You can’t lead a raid behind the wall!” Ser Davos argued, “You’re not in the Night’s Watch anymore, you’re _the King in the North.”_

“I’m the only one here who’s fought them, I’m the only one here who _knows them._ ” Jon’s mind was already made up, and there was no arguing that Davos could do to convince him otherwise.

“I haven’t given you permission to leave.” Dany’s face and voice both reminded Tyrion of a child desperately grasping at straws to stop something horrible. She couldn’t voice her real concern or care for Jon’s well-being, as that would betray the icy pressure she was bearing down on him with to bend the knee. She also couldn’t let him go on what could very well be a suicide mission without some attempt to stop him.

“With respect, your grace, I don’t need your permission; I am a king. I came here, knowing you could have your men behead me, or your dragons burn me alive. I put my trust in you, _a stranger,_ because I knew it was the best hope for my people. For all our people. Now I’m asking you to trust in a stranger, because it’s our best chance.” Jon’s speech was compelling, and well spoken, Tyrion had to admit. Though he lacked _anything_ in the way of noble birth lines, and much of the training or poise that leadership required, Jon Snow had the conviction. That was for sure.

Dany glanced to Tyrion, silently asking her Hand’s opinion on the matter. The look on her face brought sadness to Tyrion’s heart. At almost all times, Daenerys kept this stony facade in place. She wanted those around her to think of her as unshakable, but she wasn’t. There was worry and sadness etched into the lines on her face, but Tyrion knew how to separate want from duty, and Dany knew how to follow Tyrion’s advice. He gave her a subtle nod, and watched her echo that nod to Jon. So it would be, the King in the North would lead an expedition beyond the wall, with Ser Jorah, the wildlings, and his brother—assuming Tyrion could convince him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter began midway through the episode "Eastwatch", with a major deviation at the end that will be the beginning of our departure from the show's story. As all the events of the show leading up to this are the same, I felt the first chapter had to closely resemble a point in the show. With the deviation of taking Jaime to see beyond the wall, rather than bring a Wight back, we will see major events change. Hang in there, it won't be so closely related in future chapters.


	2. Jaime: Accommodations with the Dragon Queen

“What in the hell are we doing down here anyways?” Jaime bit the question off at Bronn. He was genuinely confused what the sell sword was up to, bringing him beneath the Red Keep. “Did you survive a different battle? Because _I_ saw Dothraki screamers tearing through our soldiers as if they _weren’t there,_ while a dragon rained fire from above. That was _one_ of her dragons, we should be preparing the city for a siege.” Despite his best efforts, Jaime hadn’t been able to purge all of his anxiety from his tone. Rather than frustrated and impatient, his words came out anxious and frightened. 

Bronn snorted a short breathy laugh in response, and shrugged as the pair rounded a corner. “All the more reason for you train, unless you plan on fightin’ Dothraki twelve-year-olds,” Bronn replied, dismissively. 

“I seem to recall them giving you a bit of trouble as well,” Jaime countered, skeptically. Training was understandable, but this wasn’t the time—nor the place. Normally he and Bronn sparred outdoors, in a secluded spot near the bay, not in a dark, dank cave such as this. 

“And here I am, ready to train,” Bronn dismissed, once again. He gestured towards Jaime with the sword in his hand while he spoke, signaling that he _too_ had a weapon to spar with.

“But why down here?”

It took Bronn a beat and a half to reply this time, the pair walking several paces in silence while he came up with a counter. “I don’t think you want people to see how you look swinging that thing yet.” 

Jaime rolled his eyes, his swordsmanship with his left hand wasn’t _that_ poor. He had survived the ambush on the goldroad, after all. He’d killed several of the Dothraki, and had been preparing a charge on the Dragon Queen before her dragon spotted him, and Bronn saved him. “Today just might be the day I kill you by accident.”

Again there was silence between them, as the pair approached an archway that lead to the tunnel’s largest open space. He assumed that was where Bronn intended to spar. In anticipation, Jaime reached for his sword, going so far as to rest his palm on its hilt before Bronn replied. “Oh, you won’t be swingin’ at me.”

With torch in hand, Bronn crossed into the larger room. From behind one of the may stacked crates in the chamber emerged a short, hairy, and _very_ familiar dwarf. A long scar stretched across the man’s face, from brow to chin. He was wearing a custom-fitted, and very fine tunic—Tyrion always had liked fancy clothes.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Bronn interjected. The sell sword then peeled away, giving an ironic smile to Jaime as he wheeled away from the pair of brothers. Jaime turned back to Tyrion, his eyes blazing with hatred.

There was an awkward look painted across his brother’s face, and his eyes were staring nervously at the ground. He looked well, his beard and hair both washed and trimmed. “I needed to see you, and I knew you’d never agree to meet.” The words were spoken softly, and without any of Tyrion’s trademark arrogance or sarcasm. They didn’t begin to alleviate Jaime’s sudden ire.

“You made me look like a complete fool…” Tyrion offered. His eyes had glanced upwards at Jaime now, and he could see the pleading written in his brother’s expression. “I thought I’d surprise you by hitting Casterly Rock, but you were three steps ahead of me. Abandoned the family home, completely unsentimental. Father would have been proud-“ 

That was as far as Tyrion got, Jaime drew the sword he didn’t realize he’d still been gripping. His teeth were ground together in anger, but they separated long enough for him to snarl back at Tyrion. “Don’t talk about father.”

Tyrion began closing the distance between them, sorrow and remorse written plainly on his face. “Listen to me-“ again Jaime cut his younger brother off.

“I once told Bronn,” he began, the words coming out in a froth while he motioned about with his sword. “that if I ever saw you again _I’d cut you in half.”_

That drew a reaction from Tyrion, and he could see the momentary ripple of pain on his face. “It’ll take you a while with a sparring sword,” he gestured at the blade in Jaime’s hand. His voice was less confident now though, less jovial. 

The sadness I this brother’s voice was enough to shake Jaime from his rage, and slowly his shoulders began to sink. He let out a sigh, and his arm holding the blade dropped to his side limply. His teeth were still ground together, but now he was shaking his head and trying not to let tears flow from his eyes. Tyrion and he had a bond since childhood, and though Tyrion had killed their father, that bond was still there. 

Tyrion could see the change in mood, and his eyes continued to plead with Jaime for mercy. “He was going to execute me…” Tyrion continued. “He knew I was innocent. He didn’t hate me because of anything I did, he hated me because of what I am. A little monster sent to punish him…” 

Jaime’s anger began to return, and he averted his vision downward. Tyrion had gone from apologetic to self-pitying. The tale of his undeserved hatred from their father was a tale Jaime had heard Tyrion tell a thousand times before. 

“Did he… did he think I _wanted_ to be born this way?” Tyrion continued. He was more worked up now, his face a step away from tears. “Did he think I chose it?”

“What do you want?!” Jaime finally snapped, his eyes rising to stare into Tyrion’s. The anger that had calmed within him was back now, and his sword unconsciously was once again extended forward, though not threateningly yet.

The outburst was enough to shut Tyrion up, and his face regained some of its earlier composure. “Daenerys will win this war,” he started. It took everything in Jaime to retain his composure, to switch back to Ser Jaime, the Lord of Casterly Rock and commander of the Lannister armies. To approach this professionally, rather than with the pain and anguish their father’s death had left him. “You’re a military man, you must know there’s no way around that. Daenerys is not her father… she’s even willing to suspend hostilities if Cersei agrees to certain terms.”

Jaime tilted his head in confusion at Tyrion, the lingering anger on his face momentarily replaced by amused skepticism. “If you want Cersei to bend the knee, you can ask her yourself.” 

“I-I don’t, and Daenerys doesn’t. Not right now, anyway,” Tyrion replied. Jaime’s confusion only grew. “She has a more important request.”

Tyrion’s face wasn’t amused, and his tone wasn’t sarcastic. This wasn’t some joke, he _was_ serious. “And that would be…?” Jaime asked.

“The Others are real, and they’re coming south,” Tyrion replied, his voice hesitant and holding some skepticism itself.

None of this was helping Jaime make any sense of the situation, but he was _trying._ Despite Tyrion’s vices, he was an intelligent and logical man, never one prone to believe in ghosts. “Have you _seen_ them?”

“Well, no,” Tyrion began. “But Jon Snow has—and he’s fought them. He’s convinced Daenerys of the threat enough so that she’s willing to suspend hostilities to address it… if Cersei will join her.”

“You believe Ned Stark’s bastard?” Jaime asked.

“He was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and saw their army. If the threat he’s described is real, we are all in _grave_ danger. One of the Others, the oldest I believe, he calls the ‘Night King’. Supposedly this Night King has an army of the dead unrivaled by any available to us in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“There’s a wall between us and them, I know you’re familiar with it because you wouldn’t shut up about pissing off its’ edge.” That drew a laugh from Tyrion. “What’s suddenly made this so urgent that the Wall and the Night’s Watch aren’t good enough?”

Tyrion pressed his lips together in an expression Jaime knew all too well. It was the face Tyrion made when he didn’t know the answer to a question, something uncommon for the clever little man. “I… I’ll admit, I don’t know. I haven’t seen them, but Jon Snow was terrified of them.”

“You know Cersei won’t agree to it. She doesn’t believe the Others exist, and will think this reeks of betrayal. Which it does.” Jaime’s face was resigned now. All the piss and vinegar bottled up inside him at Tyrion’s arrival had melted into exhaustion and sadness. 

“I know,” Tyrion conceded. “I didn’t expect her to, nor did I expect you to _ask_ her to. But would she believe you if you told her you’d seen the Army?”

Jaime recoiled slightly out of surprise, and the confused tilt to his head returned. “There’s a problem with your plan, I _haven’t_ seen the army.”

“Again, I know. But if you _had,_ do you think you could convince her to suspend hostilities?” 

“I might could, but again that relies on me having _seen_ the Army of the Dead, which I haven’t. And if you think I’m going to lie to her about something like tha-“

“I don’t expect you to lie to her, brother,” Tyrion interrupted. “You’ve never been a particularly good liar, especially not compared to Cersei—considering she does it for a living.” Tyrion bit his lip and began to pace around the dimly lit cavern.

“What is it you’re asking, Tyrion?” Jaime bit off.

“You’re a military man, Jaime,” Tyrion said. “I’m asking if you would go beyond the wall, with a team of course, to perform reconnaissance on the enemy. See the threat with your own eyes, count their numbers, and then relay the threat to Cersei. Do you think you could convince her?”

Jaime’s initial reaction was to refuse. The Others had been folklore longer than Jaime had been alive. The idea that they were real was more than prepared to contend with. He also _knew_ Tyrion. For his younger brother to be so worked up over a threat, there had to be some degree of credibility to it. “I’ll try, but I can’t make any guarantees.” 

That much seemed to give Tyrion some peace, and he saw his brother’s face relax some. “How will you tell her where you’re going? Or for that matter, who you’re going with.”

Jaime’s face pinched up up in anxiety, but he shook it away once more. “I’m not entirely sure, but I’ll handle it. Cersei isn’t unreasonable.”

Tyrion pinched his lips together. It was a look he often gave Jaime when he felt he was doing something stupid. “I wish you luck with that. We came here by boat. If the city guard hasn’t found it, it should still be on the beach. Hopefully they won’t find me in the time it takes you to talk to our dear sister, and Ser Davos to finish his errands.”

Jaime eyebrows quirked upwards, questioningly, but then he waved a hand, not wanting to know the story. “I’ll try to be quick.”

He turned to leave, sheathing his sparring sword back onto his belt. “Jaime,” Tyrion said, stopping him mid-step. “It was good to see you again.”

“It was good to see you too,” Jaime returned. His emotions were threatening to betray him worse than ever now, and he felt tears stinging at his eyes. His breath felt hot as fire, and reflexively he clenched his one remaining fist.

 

* * *

Qyburn was consulting with Cersei in the warm sunlight of the balcony that extended from her royal suite. Despite her new short hair, and the lines of worry that her time dealing with the Faith Militant had etched on her face, Cersei was still beautiful to him. Washed in the golden rays of King’s Landing’s sunset, it almost felt as though the worries facing them from all directions weren’t as dire as they were. Almost.

He heard Qyburn talking to her about something that sounded medical, understandable as he’d once been a maester. It was enough to spawn concern in his heart though, and he anxiously waited by one of the room’s marble pillars while the gaunt old man finished his business with her. Surprisingly, the ever-self aware Hand seemed to sense Jaime’s impatience, and wrapped things up with Cersei. As he passed by, the Hand simply gave him a polite nod and pleasant smile, while greeting him, “Ser Jaime.”

Cersei made her way slowly indoors, arching an eyebrow at Jaime while she made herself comfortable in one of the room’s many chairs. 

“Why was Qyburn here?”

“He’s the hand of the Queen,” Cersei dismissed. “Why are _you_ here?”

Jaime began to summon the lion’s courage into his chest, fearful that Cersei _might_ actually retaliate at him. “I met with Tyrion.” The silence that followed Jaime’s words was long and painful. Her eyes, which had been inquisitive and friendly, hardened to stone. For a moment, she glared daggers at him, and Jaime was certain if eyes could kill, he’d have joined their father. 

Finally, when she did speak, her demeanor had subtly changed. Her eyes had taken on a glimmer she got when she thought she was being clever. Even the corner of her mouth had twisted into a fraction of a knowing smile. “What did our brother have to say?”

“Daenerys wants to meet,” Jaime replied. He was surprised at the lack of ire she was displaying. There was no anger, no righteous wrath for betraying the family by meeting with him.

“To discuss her surrender?” 

“To discuss an armistice.” 

Cersei’s demeanor changed once more, but this time to confusion. This didn’t seem to be playing however she thought it would be. “She’s just won a great victory. Why would she want a truce now?”

“Because an army of dead men is marching on the Seven Kingdoms.” This would be the hard part of the conversation, the sell to Cersei that the Others were real—if they even _were_ real. Cersei’s mouth twisted into something akin to contemplation, and she looked away while Jaime continued. Finally she chuckled, her face dissolving into self-amusement at the message their brother risked his life for. 

“Are you going to punish him?” Now Cersei had taken charge of the conversation.

“Tyrion?” Jaime asked.

“Bronn,” Cersei replied. Suddenly he was floored, _she’d known_ about his meeting, or else she’d just figured out Bronn’s involvement on the fly. Judging by the self-satisfied smirk on her face, he was guessing the former. “He betrayed you,” Cersei clarified, as if speaking to one of her children. “He set up a meeting without your knowledge or consent.” This was proving to be a confusing day for Jaime, caught between a mental game between his two siblings that he hadn’t been prepared to enter. “Do you think anything of importance happens in this city without me knowing?”

“You let it happen… why?” 

“I’ve come to believe an accommodation with the Dragon Queen could be in our immediate interest. She has the numbers. If we want to beat her, we have to be clever. We have to fight her like father would have.”

“Tyrion asked me to go beyond the wall, to do reconnaissance with a team of Daenerys men. To see the threat for myself.” 

This brought concern onto her face for the first time in the conversation. For a moment she sat silently, a storm brewing behind her eyes, but then she spoke again. “If that is what the Dragon Queen requires…. so be it. As long as you come back to me.” Her voice was hard, and a poisonous edge had returned to it. Quickly the concern was gone, replaced by confidence once more. “Dead men, dragons, and Dragon Queens…. Whatever stands in our way, beyond the wall or on the backs of dragons, we will defeat it.” She paused, her smile shifting from a confident smirk to one of genuine warmth. “You will survive whatever is out there. If not for yourself or our House, then do it because your queen needs a king, and our prince needs a father.” She placed a hand on her belly and smiled at him. 

Jaime’s eyes widened suddenly, and he staggered a step backwards to brace himself on one of the marble pillars. His mouth opened but no words came out, and he arched his eyebrows to ask her confirmation. She nodded. Stunned, Jaime stood in silence for a few moments longer. “Publicly… you’ll have me, publicly, and say I’m the father of our child?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. They were the words Jaime had wanted to hear his entire life, the ending to their secrecy and his separation from her.

“People won’t like that,” he warned.

“The Targaryens married brother and sister for generations. Do you remember what father used to say about people?” Cersei was wearing the pompous grin she so often wore. It was remarkably similar to the look their father often wore, when he’d been alive. 

“The lion does not concern himself with the opinions of the sheep,” Jaime repeated. Finally, despite the bewilderment the previous hour had hit him with, the confidence of his youth had returned. He stepped forward and hooked an arm around her, and the two old lovers embraced once more.

When they finally separated, Cersei stared at him with hard, sharp eyes. “Never betray me again.”

 

* * *

There was little further to their meeting, Jaime said his goodbyes and left as quickly as he’d come. It took him another half-hour to collect his polished red and gold armor, his sword, and a few other belongings. With that taken care of, Jaime disappeared once more into the winding staircases that lead beneath the red keep. 

Just as he’d said, Tyrion was waiting near the basement’s secret exit. He was in a small wooden crate, but obviously had some way to see Jaime coming. By the time Jaime reached him, his younger brother had extracted himself from his hiding place, and was dusting dirt away from the knees of his breaches. 

“I knew being the pocket sized Lannister would come in handy one day…” Tyrion remarked, with a hint of mirth in his tone. “I take it she didn’t react _too_ poorly?” He led Jaime out of the castle, and towards the beach where his boat was.

“She didn’t react poorly at all,” Jaime replied, still stunned by the news she’d hit him with. He considered telling her that she’d known he was here, but that would reveal the extent of her spies. Jaime loved his brother, but he loved his sister too—and Tyrion was Daenerys’ hand. “I want to get one thing straight,” Jaime said, stopping where they stood. “I don’t like things being like this between us…” 

“Like _what?_ ” Tyrion asked, speaking before he could think. A moment later he grimaced with realization. “ _Oh,_ yes, I suppose things have been a little tense. I-I’m sorry I killed father. Really Jai-“

Tyrion was cut off mid-sentence when Jaime’s golden hand struck him across the face, right at the corner of his eye socket. It left him with an angry, red split beside his eye, and a blackened bruise around his eye. “Are we alright now?” Tyrion asked. The dwarf had been knocked onto his ass by Jaime’s attack. He was staring up at his brother with surprise, but also with hopeful pleading rather than pain. 

Jaime nodded, letting go of the pain and resentment he harbored towards Tyrion as much as he could. He stooped over and offered his brother a hand, which he readily accepted. 

“Was that really necessary? My face has already suffered enough!” Tyrion complained, with faux agony. He wiped some of the blood away from his temple, and then ran a finger across the scar adorning his face.

“I don’t really think you want to have that conversation,” Jaime rebutted. Tyrion gave a half shrug of agreement and followed after his brother. Ahead of them, near the edge of the water was a small row boat with a tarp draped over its top. Standing beside it was an old, balding man, missing several fingers on one of his hand, as well as a younger black haired man. To Jaime’s alarm, standing in front of _them_ were two guards from the City Watch. 

The guards had been talking with who he assumed were Tyrion’s associates, but were turning to leave just as Tyrion and he approached. “Aye,” one of the guards called out, “The fuck are you two?” He looked at the pair of them, and then back at the older man. Tyrion had already turned around upon seeing the guards, hoping to escape before they noticed him, but it was too late. “No, you there, stop right there.”

The pair drew closer, and Tyrion slowly and regretfully turned around. The guards looked at Jaime, noticing his sword, and golden hand, and then looked to Tyrion. They noted his height, and the scar across his face. Both men rested a hand on their respective swords. “We was lookin’ for a dwarf, couple months ago. Suppos’ to be the Queen’s brother or somethin’.” The same guard turned and looked at Jaime, “An’ you’re one of the Queen’s brothers, ain’t you.”

“No, no, there’s no need for this,” Jaime began. The older man behind them was shouting something, but they just waved him off. 

Suddenly, before Jaime could intervene for his brother, a massive war hammer slammed into the guard nearest to Tyrion. The man’s helmet collapsed from the blow, his skull caved in, and blood spewed across the sand and stone in front of him. Standing behind him, hefting the weapon was none other than the younger black haired man. He was dressed in a soot-stained, sleeveless shirt, and equally dirty trousers.

The other guard, closest to Jaime, had now drawn his sword. The man was attempting to spin to face his partner’s assailant, but found himself unable to do so, on account of Jaime’s sword piercing through his side. With a sharp tug, Jaime removed the blade from his side, and the man collapsed to his knees. The aged knight finished him by pushing the Valyrian steel blade through his throat. With a sickened gurgling sound, the man collapsed backwards. 

“Brother, Jaime,” Tyrion began nervously, “meet Ser Davos Seaworth, and…” Tyrion trailed off, staring at the younger man. He arched an eyebrow in confusion, and gave a whimsical flourish of his hand at the hammer-wielding man. “Davos, I don’t remember having a third person when we arrived.”

“My apologies,” Davos replied, approaching the group and slapping the younger man on the shoulder. “This here’s Gendry Waters.” 

It did little to alleviate the confusion on Tyrion’s face, but he just gave a polite nod. “Right… well,” Tyrion glanced down at the corpse Gendry, “he’ll do.” With that, his younger brother stepped over the body, and made for the boat. 

Jaime gave a polite nod to both men, and carefully unslung the heavy bag he’d been carrying across his back and shoulders. “Would you be so kind, Ser Davos?” 

The man nodded, and alleviated Jaime of the heavy sack that contained his armor and clothes. “Certainly, a pleasure t’ meet you, Ser Jaime.” There didn’t seem to be any veiled ill will in the man’s remark. A rarity for Jaime.

With Davos handling his scarce luggage, Jaime joined Gendry in handling the corpses. Unceremoniously, Jaime wiped the blood from his blade on the guard’s cape. He then sheathed his sword, and seized the man by one of his legs. At a slow pace, due to the weight of his chainmail and body, Jaime drug him towards the water. Gendry seemed to get the idea, and did the same with his own guard. 

“You’re the Queen’s brother? The one that killed the Mad King?” Gendry asked, breaking the silence between them. 

“I am,” Jaime answered, hesitantly. “Jaime will do, though.”


	3. Sansa: Lady of Winterfell

Despite the familiarity of Winterfell’s walls, it hardly felt like Sansa was at home. The walls were built in such a way that hot water flowed inside them, radiating heat into the castle to combat the North’s inhospitable nature. Still, it felt like the heat failed to go further than Sansa’s skin, leaving ice at her core. Despite having been born within these walls, they had also seen her worst suffering. They had housed her when she’d been sold to the Boltons like a brood mare, and they had trapped her when Ramsay tormented her for months. 

Though they had been ‘married’, Sansa hadn’t consented to a single thing Ramsay had done to her. He was unlike Joffrey, who had been an insolent child that treated the people of the court like his toys, which he enjoyed using, abusing, and discarding. Ramsay was intelligent and charming, a full-grown man that studied and analyzed her. He learned how she worked, what she enjoyed and feared, and what made her most miserable. He found personal ways to torment her each day, all within the walls of her fond childhood home.

Ramsay was dead now, but the memories of what he’d done to her still haunted Sansa in her moments alone. To add insult to injury, the man who had sold her to the Boltons was within this very castle. Littlefinger had made the act seem benevolent at the time, but it had been anything but. There no possibility that, given how involved he was in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, Littlefinger hadn’t known Ramsay’s sadistic nature. She wanted to hate him.

However, Baelish was one of the few people within Winterfell’s walls that she actually _knew._ Those who had inhabited odd jobs and roles within the castle while she lived here before had either been killed by the Greyjoys, or the Boltons. Those left were men who had traveled with Jon, or others drafted to fill the vacant roles. There was Arya, who had returned only recently, but that was another tale. 

Sansa and her younger sister had gotten along contentiously when they’d been younger. Often their mother and father had to intervene and break the quarreling sisters apart. Now, Arya resembled no-one that Sansa had ever known. Her hair was longer, her body had filled out into a womanly shape, and her face had lost many of its boyish characteristics.

The antagonistic, sharp-tongued girl that she quarreled with as a child had grown more chilled. She was less passionate, and more pointed. It was as if Arya had a handle on whatever room she entered before even arriving. She wore a slender sword on her side at all times, as well as the Valyrian steel dagger Bran had given her since her arrival. 

Sansa knew her sister wasn’t bluffing with the weaponry she carried, as she’d seen her use both the sword and dagger to defeat Sansa’s personal guard, Brienne of Tarth, multiple times. It seemed to be if Arya wanted someone within the castle dead, she would have no problem seeing to their death—Sansa included.

Her sister’s changes made Sansa want to cling on to Littlefinger, the one person she truly knew. Part of that was the young, stupid girl still inside her. Still, she didn’t send the man away. Instead, she let him stay and help prepare the castle for winter to come. The Knights of the Vale were here at his command, after all, and Jon would need them for the wars to come. For now, Littlefinger could stay.

Sansa’s finger idly stroked at the circular ‘O’ shaped necklace at her collar, while she prepared herself to give the Northern lords an audience in Winterfell’s great hall. A soft knock at her door, and the voice of one of her servants let Sansa know it was time. “I’m coming,” she replied. Sansa picked up her black leather gloves and pulled them on, before turning to head for her door.

 

 

* * *

 

It seemed the Northern lords didn’t just have isolated questions or concerns, they all had a _singular_ complaint—Jon. “He is the King in the bloody North,” bellowed Lord Robett Glover. Sansa winced. “He should _stay_ in the North.” The large harry man was standing now, and staring at both Sansa and the other Northern lords. 

“Aye,” chipped in Lord Yohn Royce, “My Lady, the Knights of the Vale rode here for _you_. We are here, _for you._ ” 

“We didn’t choose you to rule us, Lady Sansa, but perhaps we ought to have,” Glover pitched back in. Sansa saw Arya step into the back of the hall, and her skin went cold. The last thing she needed was _this,_ Arya’s cold eyes boring into her while the Lords voiced their complaints with Jon. 

“My lords, you are both too kind, but Jon is our king,” Sansa said, attempting to tame them. “He is doing what he thinks is best _for the North._ ” 

“Aye, he’s our king, but should he be?” This from a face Sansa couldn’t see. Soon the lone voice was joined by a dozen others shouting in agreement.

“I say a Stark should rule Winterfell!” Another shouted.

“Have you no _loyalty?”_ A young voice butted in. Everyone quieted to see the young Lady Lyanna Mormont climbing up onto her bench to shout above the crowd. “ _Jon Snow_ helped us retake Winterfell. _Jon Snow_ repelled the Boltons, after they _butchered_ our kin. You would turn on him so soon?”

Sansa had regained the steel of her nerves, and nodded along with Lyanna. “Thank you, Lady Mormont. She is correct, Jon is _our_ king. He traveled away to secure the supplies we need to repel the Army of the Dead.” 

She turned to Littlefinger, before cutting her eyes back to Lord Royce. “Lord Baelish, Lord Royce, if there are such pressing matters in the Vale that require your attention, that you are unable to give Jon your patience, you have my permission to depart.” She had watched cutthroat men and women play the game her whole life, now it was her turn. “There is no way to express House Stark’s gratitude for your aid. And you are right, Lord Royce, you came here for me. For that _I_ am personally appreciative, but Jon is _my_ king as much as he’s the North’s king. If you remain in Winterfell for me, you remain here _for Jon._ ” 

Lord Royce was red in the face now. The older man took a few steps backwards, while Lyanna, Arya, and Sansa’s eyes bored into him. 

“If he bends the knee-“ Glover began, but was interrupted by Sansa.

“If our king bends the knee, or does anything else under his prerogative as _king,_ we will support him, Lord Glover. ‘I will stand behind Jon Snow, the King in the North,’ have you forgotten what those words meant, my lord?” 

He started to pipe up again, but was cut short by a different speaker, one who had yet to enter the conversation. “Lady Sansa, if I may,” Lord Baelish started. “Surely none of us dare waver in loyalty to the King in the North. I have pledged the Knights of the Vale to stand behind him, Lord Royce only speaks out of frustration from not being left in the loop.”To his credit, Royce looked relieved that someone stepped in to ease him from the predicament. 

“That will be all, then,” Sansa replied, standing up from her seat. Before any of the Lords could try to catch her ear, the Lady of Winterfell slipped into an adjoining hall and began for her chambers. The soft patter of footsteps behind her betrayed the fact that Sansa had a follower. She stopped abruptly and turned around, finding herself standing face to face with Littlefinger.

“Lady Sansa, may we speak?” He asked.

Sansa grimaced. “I’m feeling exhausted, my lord. Perhaps tomorrow.” She turned around just as quickly as she’d stopped, and left him standing in the hall. The entire way back to her chambers, she felt as though someone was following her. She stopped to glance over her shoulder multiple times, but found no one stalking in the shadows behind her. 

Soon enough, Sansa was inside the warm, familiar walls of her room—the room that had been her parents, as well. She pushed the thick wooden doors shut, and was already working to unfasten the thick clasps on her gown, when a sharp knock came at the door. 

Sansa sighed, assuming that Lord Baelish had decided to push his request to talk. She cut through the dimly lit room and pulled the door open. Instinctively a hand grabbed the one clasp she’d unfastened and held it closed, to preserve her modesty. Surprisingly, standing in the doorway was short statured Arya, staring coldly at her. “Mother and father’s room?”Arya asked, as she stepped forward through the doors. Sansa had been standing in such a way that would block visitors from stepping inside until she stepped away, but Arya had slipped past her and into the room. 

“Jon gave it to me after we took the castle back. He _said_ he didn’t want it,” Sansa explained. She was offended at what her sister was insinuating. Arya just arched her eyebrows in response, saying nothing. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She replied cooly.

It was like they were children again. This had been their relationship as girls, and it wasn’t a flashback that Sansa much wanted. “Don’t do that,” she chastised.

“Do what?” Arya asked, feigning innocence once more.

“Pretend like you’re not _thinking something,_ ” Sansa replied. Her voice was dripping with annoyance, and she settled onto the side of her bed while Arya paced in front of her.

“You always liked _nice things,”_ she remarked. “They made you feel better than everyone.”

Sansa sighed frustratedly and shook her head. Ginger hair swirled around her face from the hair clasps she’d already removed. “Are you angry with me over something?”

“They were insulting Jon, and you _took it,”_ she accused. 

“I listened to their complaints, as is my job as Lady of Winterfell. I _handled_ it,” Sansa countered.

“You told them they could leave,” Arya replied. “You’re worried about how they _feel?_ ” 

“They are Jon’s bannermen, Glover has five hundred men, Royce has _two thousand._ If I let them feel they aren’t being heard, and they leave, Jon’s army is _gone._ ” Sansa explained.

“Not if they just lose their heads, first,” Arya countered coldly. 

“I’m not sure what you _think_ happened, but Winterfell didn’t just fall into our hands. We took it back, and the Mormonts, and the Hornwoods, and the Wildlings, and the Vale. All of us, working together. Now I’m sure _cutting off heads_ is very satisfying, but it isn’t how you get people to work together.” Sansa’s voice was sharp, but she was trying to explain to someone that never wanted to be a lady.

“And if Jon doesn’t come back,” Arya replied, pacing almost out of Sansa’s view, “You’ll need their support. So you can work together, to get what you really want.”

“How can you think such a horrible thing?!” Sansa snapped, drawing back slightly in recoil. 

“You’re thinking it _right now,”_ replied Arya.

Sansa stared back angrily at her sister, shaking her head once again. “I have work to do.”

Arya just gave a mocking curtsey and backed towards the door. “My Lady.” She slowly backed out of the door, never losing eye contact with Sansa. Then, once the door was closed, Sansa was finally alone. 

A few silent tears began to streak down her cheeks, the result of her emotions having been whipped into a frenzy. Just as she unfastened another clasp on her gown, there was another knock at the door. Sansa heaved a heavy sigh, and turned around, “What do you want, Arya?”

“It’s me,” the voice was deeper than she’d been expecting. A familiar male voice, albeit somewhat hollow—Bran. “May I come in?”

Sansa’s cheeks reddened, and she nodded despite being out of her younger brother’s eyesight. “Yes, of course you may.”

The door pushed open, and she saw her brother sitting in his chair. A young, unfamiliar servant operated both the chair, and the door, for him. “What may I do for you, brother?” Sansa asked, hoping that her brother wouldn’t notice the signs that she’d been crying.

“I need a boat, and some of your servants, so that I may travel,” Bran said. His voice was as hollow as it had been since he’d returned. He didn’t speak of ‘traveling’ as anything exciting or interesting, nor did he elaborate on it. 

“Travel… to where?” Sansa asked, “We are short on men, and on the verge of a war, Bran…” Sansa pleaded. 

“I know, the Long Night is coming. That is why I must go, Jon needs me.” Bran replied.

“Jon needs you…? Have you spoken with him?” Sansa was bewildered by all of Bran’s new insight, but even this shocked her.

“No, I’ve seen what will occur, and so I must go.”

“Go… where?” Sansa asked, frustration welling up inside her at Bran’s crypticness. 

His eyes seemed to roll back in his head suddenly, though he didn’t move a muscle beside that. A few moments later, his eyes rolled back into place and he adjusted his head so that he was still staring into her eyes. “First, to Dragonstone.”


	4. Bran, Daenerys, Sansa, Jon: Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to give this one multiple short points of view, rather than one long one. I wanted to weave several narratives, both of which set for the future. Thus the different style for this chapter. I hope you enjoy.

**Bran Stark**

“Why, suddenly, do all my brothers insist on going to Dragonstone?” Sansa questioned him. He could tell frustration was welling inside her, and her blue eyes were pinched slightly shut. She wheeled around and headed for one of the room’s seats.

Without a word between the two, Bran glanced back at his servant and his chair was wheeled forward. “I told you, Sansa. Jon needs me.” The eldest Stark girl’s resistance was the source of frustration for him, but doing this _with_ her would be easier than doing it against her. 

“Jon needs you for… _what_ exactly?” Sansa snapped back, resting an arm on the back of her chair, and propping her head up on the adjoining hand. 

Bran’s mouth drew closed into a thin line, hollow eyes locking with Sansa’s until she looked away. He let silence maintain its grip on the room for a few heartbeats, and then replied. “I told you that I can see everything, but they’re like pieces to me. The present is the easiest, it’s as clear as day to me. The past is like a memory, I can call it clearly, but I have to look for it specifically. The future is like a dream. Sometimes it’s fuzzy, or sometimes its memory is fleeting, but parts remain crystal clear.” 

“So you’re telling me you saw Jon… in the future, needing your help?” Sansa’s face wasn’t frustrated anymore. She seemed suddenly frozen by further realization of Bran’s abilities. A slight, hollow terror crept through the slackness to her jaw, but quickly she pulled herself together. “What is he doing there? I thought he only went to ask the Targaryen Queen for dragon glass.” She shifted her head so that her face rested between her hands, and let out a sigh.

“I told you Sansa, it’s hard to make out,” Bran replied. “But I have seen parts, and alternatives that could take place. Every possible series of events is happening all at once.”

The quote hit Sansa instantly, choking Sansa with the overbearing bravado so quintessential to Littlefinger. She also found her fears over the reach of Bran’s sight once more, but this wasn’t something he hadn’t shown before. 

“Will you assist me?”

“No,” Sansa replied, her voice shaking a little. “I won’t help my youngest brother go off to _Dragonstone,_ and lose even more family if the Targaryens resume _burning_ Starks.”

Bran’s eyes sharpened, losing some of the hollowness that’d haunted them moments before. “That is unfortunate, Sansa.” He could see Sansa recoil at the formality of his address, but she didn’t say another word as his servant wheeled him out.

* * *

 

**Daenerys Targaryen**

“As a girl, my brother told me many stories,” Daenerys began. Her voice was steely, and echoed ominously through Dragonstone’s throne room. “He told me tales of our brother, Rhaegar. I never him, but from what I’ve heard he was kind. He was _good._ ” 

“He was, your grace.” The voice back to her was rich and smooth, how Dany imagined liquid gold might sound, were it a voice—fitting for a Lannister. She stared sharply back at him, silently warning the man about the dangers of cutting her off.

“One of Viserys favorite stories was about what we would do to the man that killed him, the usurper Robert Baratheon. The ways we would kill him, and the suffering he would endure first.” Her face was as though it had been carved from ice. “When he wasn’t fantasizing about torturing the man that slew our brother, it was the man that _betrayed_ our father. The _Kingslayer._ ” Tyrion, half a dozen feet to her right side, flinched at the name. 

“Your father was an evil man,” the voice called back. Jaime Lannister took a step forward, climbing the first step that lead to her throne. The two Dothraki that stood at either side of her stepped forward to engage him, should he venture further. “He would’ve burned the entire city, innocents and children included, rather than see it under Robert’s banners.”

Dany’s breathing was sharp, and she was attempting for Tyrion’s sake to contain her rage. She hadn’t liked the idea of recruiting the Kingslayer, but she had thought it would be easier to contain her feelings. She was wrong. “That may be so, but you were his sworn shield, Ser Jaime.” She wanted desperately to call him the title he _earned_ with her father’s blood, but Tyrion had pleaded with her to contain herself. She was trying. 

“I was,” he confirmed. “And I broke those vows. I ask you, your grace, would you sacrifice half-a-million innocent men, women, and children just to keep your honor in others’ eyes?”

Dany clenched her teeth together, trying to find measured words to respond to him, but couldn’t. Turning to Tyrion, she snapped, “You brought your brother here so he could speak ill of my dead father. The father _he killed._ ” 

Tyrion winced, but affixed her with pleading eyes. “No, your grace… I apologize for any offense my brother may have brought you…” He was still trying to conjure up the words needed to sate her.

“I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, on behalf of House Targaryen, pardon you, Ser Jaime Lannister.” The words felt like poison leaving Dany’s throat. They burned in her throat, even after speaking them. But they were spoken. 

To his part, Jaime looked taken aback at first. “You have my thanks, your grace.”

“I do not need your thanks, I need your assistance,” she replied coldly. “Your brother has vouched extensively for your honor, and I respect him. If I am to believe Jon Snow, there is an army of dead men marching south. However, I am still locked in combat with your sister. Without an armistice, how am I expected to venture north to fight this army? Cersei will simply retake all that my armies have fought and died for.”

Jaime had a knowing resolve on his face, and nodded along with her. “Of course. As I promised Tyrion, I will go north with Jon Snow’s party, and survey the Others for myself. If they are a real threat, I will do all I can to convince Cersei of it as well.”

“Good,” Dany replied cooly. “Now if you don’t mind, my lord, I would prefer you find elsewhere to be.” 

_By hand, I will break the Kingslayer, sweet sister. Body and mind, I will torture him until there’s little left of him. And then, when he has suffered for days, I will execute him as father would have—with fire._

As Jaime turned to leave, Dany’s head lowered. _One word, brother. One word and I could have him burned away by Drogon._ She pinched her eyes shut, her cool smile fading into a tired frown. When she opened her eyes Jaime was gone, but Tyrion glanced worriedly at her. “Your grace…” Tyrion began, “I appreciate what you did for him, and I know he appreciates it as well.” 

“Good,” Dany cut in. Her eyes were distant, looking far past the shorter Lannister. As much as she tried to shake it away, Viserys voice was whispering in the back of her head. Reciting the ways he would torture Jaime Lannister, the ways he could kill Jaime Lannister, and the list of crimes committed by Jaime Lannister. 

Shaking her head, Dany stood up from her throne and began to descend the stairs from its dais. She caught sight of Tyrion turning to follow her, but she stopped and shook her head. “I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind, Lord Tyrion.” He seemed to recoil at her words, but gave a slow nod and backed away.

“Yes, of course, your grace,” he replied politely. “I’ll be going then.” He spun away, and made for a nearby hallway. Finally, as Dany strode through the throne room, she was mostly alone. There still stood her Dothraki guard, and Tyrion’s footsteps betrayed that he had not yet reached the door, but still there was no one watching her. 

Dragonstone was a comforting place for Daenerys, and one of its simple pleasures was just solitude. She had been born here, during a storm like no other, after her father had already been slain. She didn’t remember any of her time here, though that was to be expected of a newborn. Still, she felt a connection to the place. The dark, gloomy shadows cast in its long angular halls matched her internal mood most days. 

For her entire childhood, since she could remember, Viserys talked of nothing beyond taking Westeros. He spoke of destiny, how _his_ was the true right to the Iron Throne. He spoke of killing the Usurper, taking back King’s Landing, and dealing out punishment on the unfaithful lords. Then he had died, and his ambition transferred to her as if it were a stone tumbling down a hill, propelled by so much momentum that not even death could stop it. Everything she had done in Yunkai, Astapor, and Mereen, had been partially to gather resources needed to take the Seven Kingdoms. 

However, now that she was here, Dany had to admit that she’d never felt more lonely in her life. The return of Ser Jorah had been a relief, as he was one of her longest-lived friends, and closest advisors. Still, those around her were mostly new faces. Lord Varys, the Spider who had pretended to serve the Usurper until such a time as he chose to reveal his allegiances. Tyrion Lannister, a trusted advisor, but one that she’d known no longer than Lord Varys. No, Dany found the most comfort in the friendship with her hand maiden Missandei, and her Unsullied or Dothraki soldiers. She thought that perhaps she ought to yearn most for Daario, as he’d been the closest she had to a lover or an intimate confidant since Drogo’s death, but she hardly even thought of the mercenary left behind. Dany yearned for company and companionship, but she was so unfamiliar with the subject that she had no picture of what she desired.

She paused to run her fingertips against the rough, cold surface of Dragonstone’s wall. This place not only offered her peace in its solitude, but it provided her peace of mind in its situation. Though it was close to King’s Landing, it was a solid fortress, and was out of sight of the cursed capital. It afforded her a modicum of security in this heated war. 

She continued walking while her fingers brushed against the wall. She could feel the cool stone sapping at her finger’s warmth as she moved, the skin of her fingertip slowly cooling. Already, her time wandering in silence had provided some peace to her rage, and just in time it seemed. She reached a dead-end in the hall. There was no path branching to either side. She was faced just with a thick wooden door, leading to the outdoors. The door opened to reveal a small stone balcony, with a path branching to the castle’s wall, and another in steps that lead to the courtyard. To her right stretched the yawning mouth of Blackwater Bay, and to her left Dragonstone’s courtyard.

Carrying upward from the armory, on the other side of the courtyard, came the shrill shriek of steel hammering against steel. There were voices too, but Dany was far enough away that she couldn’t make out any of their words. She kept walking, stepping down one of the nearby stairwells. The new background noise was a nice change, and she clung to each word, curious if she could make any of it out. At first she couldn’t, but soon Dany found that one of the voices was more familiar than the others. It was the haggard, wind-whipped drawl of the North—more specifically, of Jon Snow. 

Dany crept through the courtyard, towards the armory, now able to recognize the thick flea bottom accent of Ser Davos as well. She hastened her step, and was to the armory’s entryway when Jon spoke up again. This time she was close enough to hear him well, though none had seen her—save for a third man, that Dany didn’t recognize.

“Believe me, Ser Davos, I mean no disrespect,” Jon began, turning between Davos and the younger, black haired man. “We need every body we can get, and Gendry here seems very capable. But what brought him aboard…?”

“Erm.. sorry, your grace, but-“ the younger man pointed at Dany, and the two older men spun towards her.

“Your grace,” Jon said, nodding his head respectfully. “I didn’t know you were there.” 

Dany shook her head, and looked past him to ‘Gendry’. “Please, continue, Lord Gendry. I didn’t mean to interrupt Lord Snow’s question,” Dany replied. Jon just pursed his lips and stepped aside, suddenly less comfortable than he’d been moments before. 

“Your grace,” Lord Davos cut in, “Gendry here is no lord, he’s just a flea bottom bastard. I was looking for wea-“ Davos was saying, before being interrupted.

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” the younger man blurted. “My name is Gendry Waters, your grace.”

* * *

 

**Sansa Stark**

“Once upon a time,” came the chilling sound of Arya’s voice from behind her. Mentally, Sansa prepared herself for whatever pointed remarks her sister had in store this morning. “Father would dine with a different of his banner men each night. He would speak with them, and hear their concerns. One night with Mikken, hearing the ins and outs of the armory. Another with Hullen, listening to all the intricacies of horses.” By now Arya had swiftly come to walk beside Sansa. Her hands were tucked behind her, and she was standing stiffly upright, dagger and sword proudly displayed on her belt. “I see that the Lady of Winterfell has been, so far, too busy to dine with her men.”

A deep, annoyed sigh shot from Sansa’s nostrils, and she quickened her pace. Despite having shorter legs, Arya somehow matched her in pace without missing a step. “I don’t have time for this _Arya,”_ Sansa shot back. “I wasn’t preparing to be the Lady of Winterfell. When I left here, Ramsay Bolton sat over the Great Hall. Jon was in charge from the moment we took the castle, until he decided he needed to run to _bloody_ Dragonstone.” It was mostly the truth. Sansa was having little difficulty stepping into the position, and it was one that she felt she was good at. Still, a castle as large as Winterfell, and wars such that they were facing, were quite the undertaking to prepare for.

“I know,” Arya replied, and said no more. The pair walked in silence until they reached a point where the path split, one direction back indoors, and the other to the wooden bridge that oversaw the courtyard. Arya calmly slowed her pace, slipping towards the door. She paused for a moment, with her hand on the knob and her eyes staring over at Sansa. Despite her best judgement, Sansa had stopped and was turned back to look at Arya. “You’re doing well,” she said, suddenly. “I think you’re a shit, but you’re doing well at being lady.” 

The words took Sansa off-guard, and for a moment she just stared at Arya with her mouth slightly agape. Finally she gave a slight nod, and interlaced her fingers, “Thank you, I appreciate it.” Sansa turned to walk away, but paused and turned back one last time. “If you’d like to bring one of the men from the castle, or elsewhere, to dinner tonight, there will be a place. As is tradition for the Starks of Winterfell.” 

Arya’s lips parted in a smile, and she nodded back at Sansa. The bitterness she’d bit with before was gone now, replaced by a genuine enthusiasm. “I will, thank you.” With that, the sisters parted ways, Arya back indoors and Sansa further into the castle’s yard. 

Winterfell was a din of activity. From the moment the Starks retook their ancestral home, preparations had been underway for winter and the coming wars. Sansa spent the earlier part of her morning, in-part, by hearing from lords about their contributions. 

As she walked along the wooden walkway, lords would approach her and ask passing questions. She dismissed each of them as quickly as she could, with an appropriate answer, and continued her stroll. She hoped to reach the Godswood, not for any religious comfort, but for the silence and respite it offered. 

As she descended one of the castle’s staircases, she gave a glance over the open courtyard. There was a wagon drawn up in the middle of the yard, with one rider already seated, and a driver preparing to climb on; the rider was Bran Stark. Littlefinger was the most recent of the lords to nip at her heels, but she turned to the older man and raised a hand. “Wait here if you would, my lord.”

She didn’t wait to hear his response, but instead hastened her step down the stairs towards the wagon. “Bran, what _are_ you doing?” She asked.

Her mild mannered brother only gave her one of his blank stairs, as if it should’ve been obvious. “I am going to Dragonstone.” 

“No Bran, I need you to stay. I said that,” Sansa bit back. She turned to the stable boys that were preparing the horses. “You there, stop that now, put the horses away.”

“I’m ‘fraid we can’t, ma’am,” a boy of maybe-fourteen drawled back. “Lord Stark demanded us to prepare these horses.” 

Sansa’s eyes were as sharp as daggers, and she turned to glare at Bran. “ _Lord_ Stark? I thought you said you couldn’t be lord of _anything_.” Her voice was hard, and matched her anger. 

“Yes, that is what I preferred,” Bran explained. “I am not _really_ Lord Stark, though I was, and I _can_ be.” He almost sounded regretful, like he was sorry to her for how it was. “I am the three-eyed-raven, that is who I must be. But since you wouldn’t help me, I had to be Lord Stark.”

Sansa pinched her eyes shut, and shook her head. Strands of red hair bounced around her cheeks. “Fine, _fine,”_ she snapped. “If you want to run to Dragonstone and die, then _go._ ” 

“I know, I will,” Bran replied calmly. “Thank you, Sansa,” he added, but Sansa had already turned around and was storming back towards the castle. 

* * *

 

**Jon Snow**

The south didn’t suit Starks well, and despite being a bastard that applied just as much to Jon. The King in the North shifted in his lighter armored leather tunic, the sweat building up beneath it an unfamiliar sensation to him. Jon was used to living, working, and fighting in the bitterest of cold. He still missed the Wall most mornings, longing for the simplicity and brotherhood of the Watch, and the more comfortable climate. He knew that was cherrypicking the memories, though, and shook the thought from his mind. The Night’s Watch was a thing of his past, and soon to probably be a thing of _the_ past. The Long Night was coming, and once they passed the wall, the Watch no longer had a duty, if they survived. 

Jon had _very_ little to do on Dragonstone at the present. Ser Davos, his closest advisor, as well as Tyrion Lannister, the only person resident to Dragonstone that he knew, were both gone. The pair had traveled to King’s Landing during the night prior, bent on the task of facilitating a meeting between Tyrion and his brother, the Kingslayer. He could speak with the Dragon Queen, but conversations with her seldom went far without her looping back to her primary concern. _Bending the Knee._ The thought of her issue brought slow-simmering ire to Jon’s blood. He had taken on the moniker of ‘King of the North’ because it had been thrust upon him. He sought to uphold its martial and practical responsibilities, that of _protecting_ the North, and seeing to its welfare. He hadn’t wanted any of the political maneuvering that was attached, and that was exactly what he’d stepped into on Dragonstone. Queen Daenerys, the daughter of the Mad King, was calling on the ancient oaths of Starks long dead. 

The reinvigorated frustration drew a brooding sigh from Jon, and he began to slowly pace the castle’s courtyard. A decision born out of boredom, Jon began making his way towards Dragonstone’s armory. Growing up in Winterfell as a child, but only a bastard, Jon had been cursed with abundant periods of having _nothing_ to do. In those times, he had found company amongst the smiths and armorers of the castle. It was only natural that he would seek respite in an old comfort, amongst all that was different at present. 

He stepped inside the dark area, his eyes struggling to adjust to the change in lighting. However, a familiar voice boomed out and alerted Jon to his presence. “Well if it isn’t the King in the bloody North!” Proclaimed Davos. The Onion Knight stepped forward and clapped Jon on the shoulder, and Jon was starting to make out the rest of the armory.

“Ser Davos,” Jon replied, his voice reflecting the grin on his face. “I trust your trip back to King’s Landing went well?”

“About as well as a trip into that shit-hole can go, if you’ll forgive my language,” Davos replied.

Jon nodded in response, stepping further into the armory and looking around. “Did Lord Tyrion get in touch with the, _erm,”_ he stopped mid-sentence, catching himself from saying _the Kingslayer._ “With Ser Jaime?”

“Aye actually,” Davos replied following after Jon, “Ser Jaime came back with us.” 

Jon nodded approvingly, heading towards the back of the armory where he heard the pounding of an anvil. “That’s good, we can leave soon then. The sooner that I can meet Queen Daenerys’ demands for assistance, the sooner we can _hope_ to defeat the Night King.”

“I agree, your grace,” Davos said. “I believe she’s with him at the moment. Perhaps we’ll get a more accurate timeline for this.”

Jon saw that there was a younger, burly, black haired man working one of the anvils. He didn’t look like anyone that had come with Daenerys, she had few Westerosi in her party. He also didn’t look like anyone from Jon’s party. 

“What’s your name, my lord?” Jon asked, inquisitively. 

Before the man could answer, Davos jumped in. “Your grace, he’s no lord. This here’s Gendry Waters, a bastard from Flea Bottom. He looked like my nephew, and smiths good steel.”

“Believe me, Ser Davos, I mean no disrespect,” Jon began, turning between Davos and Gendry. Confusion was spelled out on his face. “We need every body we can get, and Gendry here seems very capable. But what brought him aboard…?”

“Erm.. sorry, your grace, but-“ Gendry spoke up for the first time. He pointed behind Jon, who turned to see Daenerys standing there. 

Shock shot through his system, and he racked his brain to think if he’d said anything she might possibly find offending. “Your grace,” Jon said, nodding his head respectfully. “I didn’t know you were there.” 

Daenerys shook her head, and looked past him to Gendry. “Please, continue, Lord Gendry. I didn’t mean to interrupt Lord Snow’s question.

Jon felt immensely less comfortable, but he stepped aside to allow Daenerys to speak with Gendry

“Your grace,” Lord Davos cut in, “Gendry here is no lord, he’s just a flea bottom bastard. I was looking for wea-“ Davos had been saying. Gendry stepped forward and cut him off, though.

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” he blurted. “My name is Gendry Waters, your grace.”

Jon’s mouth hung slightly open, and then he grinned at the sudden irony. “Your father was King Robert?” He let out a stiff laugh, “I grew up on stories of our fathers fighting the Targaryens together.”

Gendry’s face looked sad, and he shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I didn’t know who my father was until he was already dead, your grace.”

“So you had no relationship with him?” Daenerys cut in. “You seek no claim to his throne?”

Gendry shook his head urgently, “Absolutely not, your grace,” he sounded frightened. “I just wanted to get the hell out of Lannister-country. They killed my father, and they would’ve killed me if it weren’t for Ser Davos.”

Daenerys’ tense posture relaxed, and she gave Gendry a smile. “I don’t hold you responsible for the sins of your father, the same I ask Lord Snow not hold me responsible for those of my father. You are welcome in Dragonstone, Gendry Waters.”


End file.
